


endings are like beginnings

by obsessivelymoody



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M, Pride, post coming out universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 18:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19339831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivelymoody/pseuds/obsessivelymoody
Summary: Dan wakes up in the post-coming out universe.





	endings are like beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Phandom fic fests 2019 Pride fest! 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Tobie](http://tobieallison.tumblr.com/) for reading this over for me <3

The air has that distinct salty, sea smell, something Dan normally finds comforting. 

Today, he feels nothing but a dull numbness, looking down from where he stands at a cliffside, watching the waves crash against the weathered rocks. 

The cliffside is familiar; Dan thinks it might be Cornwall, somewhere he’s visited enough to recognize well, but not enough to place the exact location.

"I'm not sure I can do it," he says, feeling a quick stab of fear slice through the numbness. 

"You can." The voice is recognizably Phil's, but somehow distorted, higher and lower at the same time. 

Dan feels that fear come back, this time like a punch in the gut, and he looks around for Phil, looks for reassurance in his face. He can picture Phil making the expression but he just needs to _see it_ , to know that he’s here, waiting with him. Because they do things together, and that's the plan. That's always been the plan.

"Phil?" Dan asks, still looking for him but only seeing miles of grass covered rock and a steely grey sky. 

"You can. You should. You must." 

It's the same voice, the same altered Phil voice, and Dan finds that his numbness is completely gone, replaced only with fear. 

He looks back over the edge of the cliff, feeling his stomach drop. "I can't." 

"You must." 

Dan feels his face grow hot, feels that familiar build up in the back of his throat, and knows he’s going to cry before warm tears slip down his face. 

Phil doesn’t sound like Phil, and he feels so far away from him. And Dan’s so scared. Scared to do what he knows he has to do, scared to apparently do it without the Phil he knows at his side. Scared because he knows no matter what he’s baring all—to everyone. It’s like he’s strapped himself to the operation table, opened up his own chest, and is keeping hold of the rib spreaders while the world pokes and prods at every organ, bone, and sinew like greedy vultures.

Dan knows it’s the fear talking, the fear planting these images in his mind, but he can’t help but focus on it. There’s no relief in waiting, no relief in the moments before he lets go. There’s no freedom in it either, or pride. He has nothing to show for but fear and anxiety in his thoughts and written in the tear tracks on his cheeks. 

He thinks it must be forever before a hand drops on his shoulder. The weight is comforting, and it grounds him, takes him away from his thoughts. He wipes his face, noticing that the sky has turned from grey to a violent pink. Dan doesn't recall the sun coming out, but he supposes it must have, to create such a vibrant sunset. It’s pretty, and he almost wishes he could freeze this moment in time, his nerves dulled and the world around him quietly beautiful. 

But he can’t so he looks to see who the hand belongs to. Of course it's Phil, giving him that face of reassurance he was looking for earlier. Dan looks back at the sunset and realizes it's his last. 

"I have to, yeah?" Dan says softly. 

Phil takes his hand off his shoulder, sliding his arm around Dan’s waist and pulling him into his side. 

"You do. But I'll be here. I'll always be here. Beside you, just like you're beside me." His voice is normal and it further softens the fear in Dan. 

"Because that's the plan," Phil continues. "No matter what. This moment is yours, but I’ll be here." 

"No matter what." He echoes, leaning in to Phil. 

Dan waits until the sun gets lower in the sky, the pink streaking with indigo and burnt orange, before speaking again. 

"Okay. I think I'm ready." 

"You can do this. I'm here." Phil says, pulling away from Dan and placing a hand on the small of his back as they walk closer to the cliff's edge.

There's a rumbling noise, and Dan turns to see what appears to be infinite amounts of humanoid shadows. A low noise emanates from the shadows, growing louder and louder by the second. 

It's nearly unbearable to listen to when Dan takes another step, the tip of his trainer poking over the cliffside. 

"I'm ready." He says. 

"I'll be there right after you," Phil says into his ear. “Remember that I’m proud.”

And then Dan jumps. 

Falling is a sensation Dan never thought he would enjoy. He didn’t expect it to feel like this, but right now, it feels like peace. Utter peace and serenity, and it makes him wish he could fall forever, to live in this feeling of being weightless. It feels free. _He_ feels free. 

He watches as he gets closer to the sea, and he's nearing the end of his fall when he thinks he hears the shadows again. This time, they're cheering. 

* 

Dan wakes up with a start, his body flinching violently against the bed. Their room is quiet, the telltale signs of early morning sun reflected against the walls in the golden bars that peek out from the edges of the curtains. He takes a shaky breath out, running a hand through his hair as he realizes it was just a dream. 

Just a dream. A weird one that’s left his heart pounding, one he doesn’t want to think too hard on right now, but just a dream. The cheers at the end still echo in his mind, making him shiver.

Phil stirs beside him, a sleepy, muffled groan breaking through the silence in their bedroom. Dan glances over as he rolls into him, beaky nose pressing into Dan’s bicep and a stray bit of hair tumbling forward over his shoulder. 

“Bad dream?” Phil asks, voice still thick from sleep. He leans off Dan’s arm then, focusing a bleary gaze on him. 

Phil’s eyes are never one colour, and Dan finds himself especially soft for the mornings where his eyes are more of a stormy grey than blue. He knows if he gets close enough the flecks of yellow will be especially vibrant, but he stays where he is for now. He knows it’s gross and sappy, and the only person he would ever think to say this out loud to is Phil anyway, but he’s got a lifetime ahead of him to keep looking at Phil’s eyes. So he leans further back against the pillows, tearing his gaze away from his eyes. 

“Of sorts.”

Phil just nods and settles in closer. 

“I’m proud of you,” he says after a moment. 

It’s probably the hundredth time Phil has said this over the last 24 hours, but it never stops hitting Dan in the same way. He’s sensitive enough at this early morning hour and still shaken up from his dream that tears prick hotly around his eyes. 

“I love you,” he replies. Normally one of them would joke about it, as it’s too early and not like they’ve fucked yet or anything. Normally they’d laugh it off because they’re horrible saps but still best friends who will always jump at the chance to take the piss out of each other. But on the morning after one of the most emotional nights they’ve had in a good while, neither of them have the energy. 

Which is okay. More than okay, really. Dan loves being in love with Phil, and loves to let him know. 

And it feels like a proper weight off his shoulders to do so completely unapologetically, everywhere he can. 

“Yesterday really happened, didn’t it?” He whispers. 

“It did. And I’m so proud of you.”

Dan scoots down closer to Phil so their faces are at the same level. “I’m proud of you too. I didn’t do this alone.” 

“No,” Phil reaches up to wind a finger around one of Dan’s curls. “But you worked so hard, and this was _hard_. And I’m so happy for you, and proud of you.”

He ducks his head into Phil’s collarbone, smiling. 

“It’s a relief,” Dan murmurs. 

He thinks about how it felt to fall in his dream. It’s not dissimilar to how he feels now, only there’s no lasting dregs of fear coursing through him. This bed, this room, the man beside him—they’re all safe. And they make Dan happy.

“Yeah,” Phil plants a kiss on the top of his head. “It is.”

They’re quiet for awhile, contently laying together and listening to the buzz of London (and what is probably a traffic jam close by, judging by the amount of horns sounding off). Dan watches the sun shift and fade to a brighter yellow against the wall, feeling at peace as he pushes away any thoughts that don’t concern the here and now. 

At least, he feels at peace until Phil breaks the silence. 

“You put way too much product in your hair yesterday. I feel like I have a film on my lips.”

Dan scoffs. “Maybe your morning breath has decided to grow out of your mouth and live there.”

“Are you saying my breath smells?” 

“No,” Dan says, smiling against Phil’s collarbone again before rolling off him. “I’m saying _you_ smell. Generally.”

Phil sits up with a huff at that and stretches, slipping out of bed and walking toward the ensuite. 

“Join me in the shower then?” He calls back, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. 

Dan agrees, pushing back the covers and turning to sit on the edge of the bed. He picks up his phone as soon as he hears Phil start to shuffle around the bathroom. The water starts running as he reads through the messages on his home screen. 

Twitter has long since been deleted, a move that his therapist suggested a while back to try to ease some of the pressure it makes him feel. It’s nice, he thinks, to be able to scroll through texts from people he’s cared enough about to give his number to. 

Not that the support isn’t nice. Last night was overwhelming—a good kind of overwhelming, but Phil still had to pry him away from his laptop after a certain point. He wonders, the shadow figures and their eerie outrage and cheers from his dream coming to mind, what it looks like today. 

Dan decides that can wait though, because nothing is nicer than a text from his mum reminding him how proud she is of him, and that they should have dinner soon. Or the text from his nana signed off with an inordinate amount of kisses. 

And it’s another weight off his shoulders. One of the heaviest ones, so ingrained that for years he thought that getting used to it will always be better than trying to confront it. 

"It's okay," Phil had said to him seconds after he hit send on the email. "It'll be okay. That I'm sure of. And I'm always here. _Always_."

He was right, of course. It's okay, and Dan doesn’t feel that impossible weight pressing down on him when he thinks about his family, like he’s six feet under with no coffin to cushion the heavy earth. 

There’s a bitterness though, something he should note down to bring up to his therapist, but it’s something to deal with another time. Right now, he’s happy to have them in his life, and happy to be able to bring up Phil without feeling a slight twinge of panic at the unspoken obvious.

Dan scrolls through the other messages, but settles on replying first to Mum and Nana because he can hear Phil padding out of the bathroom before his feet enter Dan’s line of sight. 

He sends off the texts quickly, and looks up at Phil, who smiles softly, offering Dan a hand. 

“C’mon then,” He says, and Dan grabs his hand. “My hair can’t wash itself.” 

Dan rolls his eyes. “No, but _you_ can wash your own hair.”

“How can you even suggest something like that!” 

*

After, hair curling into little waves but still damp from the long period spent in the shower, Dan walks upstairs. Dan grabs his laptop from where he left it on the coffee table the night before. He settles into a corner of the sofa, curling his feet up under him and resting the computer on his lap. 

As he hears Phil come up the stairs, Dan takes a deep breath, tracing his thumb along the opening of his laptop. He watches Phil walk into the kitchen, watches him grab two mugs out of the cupboard like it’s the most natural thing in the world and flick on the kettle. 

He thinks about falling, and letting people in because the potential good from it will always outweigh his fear. It’s simple ethics, Dan thinks, but besides that he’ll always have Phil. Nothing—and _no one_ —can change that. 

No matter what he’ll be able to sit and watch Phil spill sugar all over their counter tops, hear him curse under his breath, and know that at some point he’ll turn around and smile at Dan, two mugs in hand and a cupboard door left wide open behind him. 

Last night was fine. Better than fine, actually. It was everything he could have hoped for and more. But there’s a silly part of his brain that is still focused on the split second between the impact in his dream and him waking up. Somehow, as ridiculous as it sounds, going online today is going to make everything real again. 

This morning, from waking up to this moment now, where Dan watches Phil place the mugs—one filled with coffee, the other plain green tea—on the table, feels safe. Like liminal comfort that the two of them, and _only_ the two of them, can peacefully exist in. 

But the world keeps turning and eventually Dan will have to open his laptop. And for the most part, he knows it’s going to be just as fine as it was last night. He just wants this moment to last forever.

“Alright?” Phil asks before sipping his coffee. 

“Yeah,” he says, ripping off the plaster and swiftly opening his laptop. “Never better.” 

And it’s true. 

Dan pulls up Twitter, eyes skating over the first few tweets on his timeline and the little brightly circled numbers on the left of his screen. (Briefly, he thinks back to the shadows in his dream again, to the cheering near the end of it). He clicks on ‘ _Tweet_ ’, an idea already forming in his mind he can’t help but smile over. 

It feels so good to type the words, and even better to send them off. It’s another weightless feeling, tangled in the peace of falling and the comforting finality of the impact. He loves it, and could drink in the feeling of reclamation and finally being able to breathe. 

Instead, he takes himself out of it, and sits back for a moment, watching Phil chuckle at his phone. Phil looks up and rolls his eyes at him, which makes Dan grin widely at him.

“I mean, same here,” Phil says, and Dan laughs loudly. 

*

Dan plugs his phone in, laughing under his breath at a message from a friend about the balloons on his Instagram story, before sliding into bed next to Phil. Phil’s propped up against more than his fair share of the pillows, intently focused on his phone.

"So I dreamed I was falling off a cliff last night," Dan says, watching Phil look up at him over the rims of his glasses. 

"You did?” 

“Yeah. It was—it was terrifying, but it kind of had to happen?” He shakes his head. “And then it felt good. I’ve just been thinking about it all day.”

Phil nods, locking his phone and dropping it in his lap. “I hate those dreams.” 

“I know. Me too. This one,” Dan swallows, and Phil reaches out during the pause, laying a hand on his arm. “This one felt too real though. I think that’s why it’s bothering me.” 

Phil rubs soothing circles into his arm with his thumb. “It’s not though. You’re here, with me, and this is real. This is always what’s real.”

Dan smiles at him, grateful. He’s right, and Dan knows that, just like he knows that his dreams are just manifestations of real life. And maybe that’s what makes them so terrifying. He’ll ponder on that later, though. For now, he just hopes what he dreams tonight doesn’t linger. 

“Oh, and Dan?” Phil asks, tightening his grip on his arm.

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t do any falling. Not off of anything, or for anyone but me.” 

Dan laughs, promising Phil he won’t, and pecks him on the cheek.

The next morning Dan wakes up with nothing on his mind besides the annoying way Phil’s toes are digging into the soft part of his calf.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote that dream bit at about 3 am the night Dan uploaded his video because I couldn't sleep and had way too much on my mind. I'm glad this fest came along soon after so I could write more and share it :)
> 
> title from "Endings are beginnings" by Jamie Cullum. 
> 
> you can like/reblog this on [tumblr](https://obsessivelymoody.tumblr.com/post/185807599557/endings-are-like-beginnings-rating-g-word) if you want.


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